not, when fitting, how to weep too; and that tears shed from such eyes are touching as showers in sunshine that revive the Spring. Servillaka is one of those mixed characters which, when naturally delineated, always please by the perpetual appeals they make to every man's own experiences of his better and worser nature. We are no cracksmen. Never broke we into a house (outhouses, perhaps, excepted) with felonious intent; and never out of one without the owner's acquiescence; yet we are burglars in posse, and cannot regard Servillaka's exploits without some sympathy, and much admiration. He robs to relieve; and by a purloined casket manumits a slave. He takes unlawful liberties with Charudatta's goods and chattels, that he may take lawful liberties with Madanika's personal charms; and to do him justice he knows at the time that he is acting wrong, and feels it afterwards-sincerely, as his conduct proves-for he is a trusty and deedful friend to that bold and brawny insurgent the Cowherd's Son, and asks Charudatta's forgiveness, whom he has helped to bring to the stake, not with remorse only, but with repentance. He was once a reprobate-may he not now be an honest-as assuredly he is a brave man? rose-leaf from my pillow; suffocate him in mire-but like flower-impregned air let me inhale the melted ruby! "Let famished nations die along the shore"- but let daintiest delicacies soothe me into surfeitfor is not mine the palate of a prince and is not mine a prince's stomach! In that word-Prince-lay the evil spell that transformed man into fiend-that word in which may lie a holy charm that transforms man into seraph. He was a rajah's brother-in-law, and not a brother-innature had he-let us hope-in all Hindostan. Twisted, distorted, deformed in his moral and intellectual being; his soul in the rickets-and with a shocking squint. Yet he waxed witty in his wickedness, and found fun in weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. He danced, and sung, and crowned his head with flowers, and believed himself beautiful in women's eyes, and the seducer would fain too be a ravisher; but was forced to be satisfied with murder. Like a panther that in domestication loses all his little catcourage, but acquires new cruelty from his cowardice, and crouching in fear of the lash, keeps lapping away at blood. Frivolous in the midst of all enormities-his conscience shrivelled away like a drunkard's liversometimes sized like a hazel-nut, But what think you of Sams- and containing but dust. Laughing, thanaka? 'Tis a true Oriental cha- weeping, crying, quaking, fainting— racter-and painted by a master's and all for his own miserable self of hand. Only in the East can we be- slime in lubrication or in crust. lieve in the possibility of such-a Irreclaimable to humanity by rod, Prince! He had been suffered from chain, or stake; and when pardoned the cradle to kill flies-among the on the brink of death, running away bummers and blue-bottles an infant in gratitude composed of fear, and Burke. He had fed tame spiders anger, to the perpetration of the that with a stamp he might obliterate same cruelties, like a mangy monthe big bowels. Hence his lust for grel that you may flea alive without inflicting his fear of suffering pain. curing him of the disease of worryTo see writhings became a delighting sheep. A Prince! an Oriental to writhe a horror. Impale that Prince! wretch-but remove the doubled Printed by Ballantyne and Company, Paul's Work, Canongate. WERE not the first Four Books of the Odyssey felt to be in themselves a Poem? Perhaps you might liken them to the porch of a palace. We would rather liken them to the arms of a tree. Part only of the green umbrage is visible, but sufficient to show that it belongs to a noble bole; and erelong we shall behold the whole Wonder, proportioned in the perfect symmetry of nature, with broad crown familiar with storms, yet a pavilion for the sunshine, and in its magnificence rooted among rocks. A tender and profound interest has been breathed into our hearts in all that concerns Ithaca; it is invested with the hallowed charm of Home-we love the rocky yet not unfruitful isle as if it were our own birth-place-and the smoke seems to ascend from our own hearth. In the midst of all that trouble, we are conscious of a coming calm. 'Tis a stormy day, but not a cloud-we are assured-will disturb the serenity of sunset. We believe the Seer and the Eagles. Penelope is no object of pity nownot even when seen sitting on the stairs, stupified into stone by the voice telling her that her Telemachus has left her alone in her widowhood among all those lawless VOL. XXXV. NO. CCXVin, men. For that doleful and delusive trance is succeeded by a delightful and faithful Dream; her Ulysses is not dead-her Ulysses will returnand what matters transient misery to any mortal, when it purchases steadfast bliss ? Homer is fond of Dreams. And not one of them all is more apparently heart-born than the Dream that appears to Penelope in the shape of her sister. Ipthima tells her that the Gods will restore her son. "But what canst thou tell me of Ulysses?" Of his fate the phantom will make no revelation. Eustathius says that if she had, the poem would have been at an end. But that was not the reason of her silence. Ipthima was Penelope. Telemachus had left her, and her soul was troubled; but she had seen the young hero in his pride, unappalled by the Suitors, and knew that he had gone on a holy quest to Pylos and Lacedemon-to Nestor and Menelaus. Her heart, cheered by the thought in sleep, felt her brave boy would escape the ambush. But Ulysses! he had been away from her for twenty years. Hope was almost dead in her waking-as now in her sleeping dreams. Her heart asked her heart, "Oh! tell me of my Lord?" But in her K despair there was no response-and she awoke. But she awoke to joy; and in that joy no doubt the wife was comforted as well as the mother, nor could she believe, as she did, in the return of her son, without some hope stealing with the morning light of the return of her husband! The Philosophy of Dreams in Homer's poetry is the Religion of Nature. That Dream made the widow's heart sing aloud for joy. There is light in her eyes, though still broken and dashed with tears. Her son's heroic piety comforts her-the seer's prophecy comforts her-and comforts her beyond all else her own faithful heart. Yet how blindthough visited by glimpses—are the eyes of sorrow! How idle often all our holiest tears! What if Penelope could see Ulysses sitting on an enchanted shore, and forgetful of heavenly charms weeping for her sake! For her sake struggling with the tempest that drives him-homewards! Swimming towards an unknown shore-day and night-all for her sake- and saved from sinking by a talisman given him by a compas sionate Spirit of the Sea! What if she could see the Falcon of Alcinous wafting to her embrace her lord the King? But love knows not-either in its joy or its grief-what a day may bring forth; and beautiful is the poetry that sings of the uncertainties of human life heaving like the world of waves-all settling down into peace at last—a gracious lull descending from Heaven at the command of Providence. There is much to mourn over in the Greek Mythology; but now we see but Love and Mercy; and the Deities assembled on Olympus are like "Blessed angels pitying human cares.' At one council Minerva had permission from Jove to carry comfort to Ithaca; and now at another Mercury is sent to Ogygia-a messenger bolder if not so bright as Iris-and at the word of Jove, we behold him in Homer, as in an after vision we be hold him in Shakspeare, "the herald Mercury, new-lighted on a heavenkissing hill." Book v. 43-96. Thus he spake nor did the messenger (of the gods), the Argicide, disobey: Ambrosial, golden-which were-wont-to-bear him, whether over the deep, Or over the unlimited earth, along with the blast of the wind, He took also his rod, by which he lulls the eyes of men, Whomsoever he wills, and when sleeping rouses them up again. With this in his hands the brave Argicide flew : And having alighted on Pieria, from the ether he fell into the sea: And over the waves hastened, like the bird the sea-mew, Which, along the mighty bosom of the immeasurable ocean, As it hunts after fishes, oft moists its wings with spray. Like to it (the sea-mew) was Hermes wafted over the multitudinous waves. But when indeed he came to the island placed at a distance, From the violet-coloured ocean ascending to the main-land He came-on, till he reached a spacious cave, in which the nymph With-beautiful-ringlets dwelt: her he found within. A great fire was blazing on the hearth, and far the odour Of easily-cleft cedar-wood, and of incense, spread-fragrance throughout the island A wood in-full-luxuriance had-grown-around the cave, Owls, and cormorants, and long-tongued divers (sea-birds) There also around the hollow cave was extended A young-luxuriant vine which flourished in clusters. Four fountains in-order flowed with limpid water, Near to each other,-being turned one, in one direction, and another, in another. Around soft meadows of violets, and of parsley, Were blooming: thither even an Immortal, had he come, Would have admired (it) as he gazed, and had been delighted in his spirit. But when he had admired the whole in his heart, Forthwith into the spacious cavern he entered: nor him in her presence Did Calypso, the divine one among goddesses, when she saw him, not recognise. (For gods are not unknown to each other, The immortals,-not even if one dwell-in mansions remote.) But the great-hearted Ulysses he found not within, For he sitting on the shore was weeping: where formerly indeed (it was his wont to do so), Torturing his heart with tears, and groans, and griefs, Pouring out tears (while) he looked on the immeasurable ocean. Having seated him on a brilliant shining throne. "Why, oh! golden-rodded Hermes, hast thou come to me, Thou venerable, and loved (one) ?—for erst thou camest not often, Speak whatever thou hast-in-thy-mind: my heart impels me to bring-it-about, If I can indeed bring it about, and if it be practicable. But follow (me) further-on, that I may place before thee the rites-of-hospitality." In a This is the most elaborate description of natural scenery in all Homer. In the Iliad, the bard but illumines the visual sense by a few sunny strokes, that make start out tree, glade, or rock. Here we have a pic ture. Say rather a creation. moment the poet evokes the enchanted isle out of the violet-coloured ocean. There it is hanging in air. But all we know is, that it is beautiful-for we are Mercury, and see nothing distinctly till we find ourselves standing at the mouth of a spacious cave. The light of a magical fire-the odour of sacred incense -the music of an immortal voiceCalypso herself plying the golden shuttle as she sings! All felt at once -yet in loveliest language evolved in a series of words expanding like a flower with all its bright and balmy leaves an instantaneous birth. We must not disturb the daughter of Atlas-but gaze and listen-till by degrees the congenial beauty of the place withdraws our soul and our senses from the tones and tresses of the Divine among Goddesses, and, still conscious of her living enchantments, we are won by delight to survey the scene in which she enjoys her immortal being, yet about to be disturbed by visitings like our own mortal grief! The scene is silvan. "A wood in full luxuriance had grown around the Cave!" One line gives the whole wood-another its composing trees-another their inhabitantsand all together breathe of the sea. Look again at the Cave. The entrance is draperied with green and purple-for in such sunny shelter luxuriates the vine! The beauty of nature is nowhere perfect without the pure element of water wimpling in peace. And there it is-flowing fresh as flower-dews-in mazy error-through blooming meadowsits" sweet courses not hindered"— and happy to blend its murmurs with the diapason of the deep. True it is that earth is as beautiful as heaven. So felt now the Argicide-"standing there till he had admired the whole in his heart." Beauty begets loveand love admiration and admiration hushes the heart of Gods and men till they are still as statuesand not till the passionate trance subsides can Mercury himself move a footstep-though his sandals are golden and ambrosial, and bear him over earth and sea like the breath of the wind. Whereabouts-in what latitude lies. Calypso's Isle? To what bright neighbourhood of stars is it dear with its yellow woods? Of what constellation beholds it, during calm nights, the image trembling in the sky-seeming sea? The flight of Mercury betrays not the secret of its birth-place-from Pieria's top he falls plumb-down upon the sea— and away like a wild gull he scours -but whether towards the rising or the setting sun, not a whisper from Homer-only we afterwards hear from the messenger himself that he had "measured a breadth enormous of the salt expanse"-and something very vague of its position on the watery wilderness may be gathered from Calypso's Seaman's Guide, orally delivered on his departure to Ulysses. 'Tis all a beautiful mystery-imagination dreams a dream-the understanding surrenders its privilege of questioning, and the heart delighted believes that all is truth. Ogygia! A glimpse of the spiritual world of old that still fluctuated waveringly between sense and soul, and was constructed by poetry of idealized realities, that may cease to be seen on troubling of the ether, but can never cease to be, if mind be immortal. Ogygia! it is felt to be "self-withdrawn into a wondrous depth" of seclusion! Though "light the soil and pure the air," and the scenery composed of all familiar objects, yet is the region felt to be almost as preternatural as if it were submarine-and Calypso's cave as wondrous as a Mermaid's grotto. How very still! No screen to the mouth of the cave, but a few vinefestoons-so, blow as it may on the main-and all around the isle, (and a storm brought hither Ulysses,) on the land, all is lown-merely breath enough to keep the pure air for ever pure-and to enable the leaves to take a dance now and then upon the tree-tops, to some Eolian harp capriciously playing in the shade. Calypso is a queen-but she has no subjects, only her attendant nymphs POPE. -and of them we see-hear nothing only once are they mentioned they are to us but mere momentary shadows passing unheeded along the walls of the cave. There is no building made with hands anywhere on all the isle-not a vestige of antiquity in the shape of a rudely sculptured stone. No roads - no pathways no flocks-no herds-no four-footed creatures, either wild or tame-not even-we are sorry for it a dog. Food and drink are set before Ulysses, such as are eaten and drunk by mortal men-but we know not whence they come-they seem served by invisible hands-and of kitchen or cellar there is no sugh. A charm is over all-yet 'twould be hard to say by what spell it has been wrought. 'Tis all the doing of the finest possible spirit of poetry, that works wonders without appearing to be at work at all; of genius instinctively knowing how far fiction may be interfused with truth, and within the domain of wildest imagination be brought all the homeliest, and therefore holiest, sympathies of nature. Is it not so in Ogygia? But whose English is likest the Greek? Perhaps, after all, our own prose-faithful to the meanings, if false to the measures of the words-yet not false even to the measures-for we have them in our heart as we hope you have in yours; nor can there be ever more now than a faint echo of such music from even the highest harp-humble the highest when struck in rivalry with Homer's-and powerless to imitate the gold and silver of those heaventempered strings. He spoke. The God who mounts the winged winds Fast to his feet the golden pinions binds, That high through fields of air his flight sustain Or in soft slumber seals the wakeful eye : |